Dead Men Tell No Tales
by Tatsumaki-sama
Summary: He was dead. He has been dead for some time now. So why did no one else realize it?


**Disclaimer:** I don't own One Piece or any of its characters.

**There will be some spoilers from Thriller Park, just to warn you. I've always liked experimenting different types of genres and this is my first real angst story. (after all, angst is a fangirl's best friend.) So please bear with me if I do a bad job of it. Until then, hope you enjoy and review!**

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**Dead Men Tell No Tales****  
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He was a little surprised that no one realized it initially. It was supposedly the most obvious thing. (it's not that often someone sees a dead man walking around, aside from Brook) It took them some time, but eventually, the more observant ones began to notice.

Robin, like he had suspected, had known all along. She wasn't someone who would miss any kind of tricks. She was the observer, the watcher, taking note of everything he did, recording them in the banks of her mind. Perhaps she was worried he might do something stupid or reckless. (it made sense as Robin was the mother of their little group) Often, he could feel her gaze brushing against the back of his head over the edge of her books and the weather-worn pages. Robin never said a word about it, never asked him nor informed the others, and for that, he was grateful. He would hate to have to explain it. (his throat closes up, his tongue suddenly swollen, just thinking about it) So she remained silent and he remained dead.

The next one was unsurprisingly Sanji. Similar to Robin, the cook didn't mention it. In fact, he didn't seem to even think about it. (probably to swallow his own pain) He flirted freely and frequently with Nami and Robin, as usual. He scolded and yelled at the others whenever they goofed off, sneaked into his beloved kitchen to steal some food or simply annoyed the heck out of him, like normal. But there was a change, albeit slightly, whether Sanji himself realized it or not. His kicks were fiercer and more severe, his words more scathing and harsh, his meals a hint less luscious and heavenly. The kitchen nowadays is always filled with the pungent scent of cigarettes and a murky, dull haze of smoke. The others complained and avoided the smell, but he loved it. He loved the way the acidic essence burned his throat, scorching his lungs and squeezing his chest. (it's better to feel something than nothing) Maybe that's why Sanji liked the smell too.

Not too long after those two, Nami caught on rather quickly. She was the first to actually say something about it, despite saying it subtly and indirectly (perhaps for his sake). One day, she berated him, telling him to stop lazing around and do something. She told him it's been a month (has it really been that long?) and he's been nothing but useless, not doing anything to help around in the ship. It went to the point where she downright threatened him, intimidating him with her unbelievably herculean fists. Once before, maybe in the past, he might have been frightened by her short-fuse temper, granted, this time was ignited out of concern for him. However, there was very little Nami could do to him now. (you can't hurt a man any more who happened to have died a long time ago)

It didn't take Franky long to know that something was wrong with him, after seeing Nami yelling at him that one time. He tried the more practical approach, attempting to talk to him. He chattered evenly about the weather, Thousand Sunny, the plans he has for the docks and other projects he was working on. He listened to Franky without really listening to him. (there was a dull roar in his ears that deafened everything else) It must be nice to be a cyborg like Franky, he idly thought. There is scarcely any feeling or any sensation. It would be pleasant to be numb to the world, not having to feel what he was feeling or had felt. But he really didn't have to worry too much about that. He was already dead to the world of living, numbed and emotionless. As much as he wanted to answer Franky (his voice was now reduced to no more than a cracked whisper), there was nothing to say.

Of all people, he was confused as to why Chopper, the doctor of the crew, did not notice his death. (his heart wasn't exactly beating) He was no doctor but the symptoms were excruciatingly blatant, out in the open for everyone to see. Couldn't Chopper tell that the shriveled organ in his chest, blackened and still, no longer moved? It did exasperated him that no matter how many times Chopper placed the stethoscope where his heart used to be, listening to it, claiming that he was all right, he wasn't all right. (well, he _was_ kind of dead after all) The little doctor tried to be as helpful as possible, listing off and proscribing dozens of medicines for his "sickness". He took them out of pity, not wanting to hurt Chopper, while the pills only suffocated him more when he forced them down his throat.

Despite being the newest member of the crew, Brook understood. His comfort did not come from words or gentle gestures. To emphasize his sympathies, Brook simply played his piano, his fingers spelling out their master's desire, trilling a solemn chorus, bellowing a low resonance, whispering a delicate melody, humming a tragic symphony. He didn't even have to ask. The skeleton would immediately skip to his room, where the piano was itching to play, to sing a song for him, as soon as Brook sensed that he wanted (- no, needed) to hear the soothing lullaby. He would sit there for hours and hours, completely spellbound, focusing on the music, like it was his drug. (in some sense, it was) It was the only thing that could lull him to sleep, saving him from the gruesome, ugly nightmares in the swallowing darkness of the night.

Usopp was one of the last to detect it. Or perhaps, he was in denial, preferring to pretend that it had never happened, that everything was still fine and perfect. It was like one of his lies, like one of his stories. He was probably the one that seemed the least affected. (or so it seemed) Usopp was still all jokes and fun (to keep the facade up for the others), grinning mischievously as he pulled his latest prank on the unfortunate victim. There might have been times where Usopp's earnest activities were able to make him smile, even if it was only a little. Like the time he added spicy sauce into both Franky and Brook's plates, just to see what kind of reaction would a cyborg and a skeleton have, (just to avoid the uncomfortable silence when someone accidentally mentioned _it_).

Suddenly, he began to laugh. He laughed as he would have done ages ago when he could laugh. He laughed so hard his lifeless heart might have started again. (wouldn't that be something?) He continued laughing until tears came, blistering and hot. They seared his cheeks as they trickled down, leaving streaks and scars. Soon, there was no air left in him to laugh, to make a sound. But he didn't care. He was screaming by now. (screaming to the bloodied skies and gloomy seas) He was rather amazed that not a single person heard him.

In the end, Roronoa Zoro was selfish. (yes, the word used was selfish) He left and took a piece of Luffy's life, a piece of his very soul, with him when he went and never came back. He hated Zoro. He hated him bitterly, desperately, uncontrollably. Every thought of Zoro consumed and ached. He wanted to forget but he wanted to remember. At times, Luffy would close his eyes, trying to recall Zoro's often emotionless face, his stern, gruff voice, his infectious laughter and rare smiles, his scent of resolute steel, his ruffled green hair, his unwavering confidence and invincible strength, his warm, reliable presence. It was both agonizing and relieving to find that those memories, the awareness and the consciousness of the swordsman, are all fading, decaying to nothingness and oblivion.

He clung to the tattered green bandanna like a lifeline. (oh the irony of it) He gripped it, nails digging into the fine cloth, murmuring to it, inhaling the dwindling scent that still faintly lingered. It was soft against his skin, like glossy feathers or a newborn kitten's velvety fur, the only thing more soothing than Brook's music. Zoro's treasured swords could be found in a cluttered mess not too far from him, ignorant of the terrible nature of the situation. It was left to him to clean and polish the swords (the others can't stand looking at them), scrubbing the metal until his hands were scraped and bruised while the swords gleamed brightly. The swords were amazingly still perfect and flawless, not realizing that they were now in the hands of someone who was not their master.

It wasn't the fact that Zoro was dead. (well, part of it) It was the fact that Zoro had died because of _him_. Sanji and two pirates from Lola's crew reluctantly confessed it, what they had witnessed that fateful night. The Shichibukai, Bartholomew Kuma, arrived, shortly after Moria was defeated, shortly after Luffy went unconscious due to exhaustion. He was too powerful for the weakened Straw Hats, detonating half the island to kill those who refused to give Luffy to him. Zoro was the only one able to still fight and even had the strength to knock Sanji out, who was just as desperate to surrender his life for his captain and crew. As simple as that, he made a deal with Kuma. Take his life and leave Luffy's. Kuma agreed, under the condition that all of Luffy's pain will be transferred to him, that the suffering Luffy would have endured would be equal for him. When the rest of them woke up, they found Zoro, standing, arms crossed, splattered in so much blood Luffy still could taste the coppery air even now. He was smiling, despite being covered in crimson and grime. He tried to laugh, a gurgling gasp in his throat. It would be the last thing he ever did.

The question was, how could someone live with that knowledge afterwards? The horrid image of the dead but still upright man haunted Luffy for days and nights to come. Zoro's eyes were still opened, though vacant, as if someone had wiped them clean. He was unnaturally serene and motionless when they laid him to his grave (as if he was sleeping and this was all a bad dream). Luffy's hands shook, remembering Zoro's icy skin, freezing his fingers upon their last contact, before they finally let go and the body vanished under a mound of dirt, who did not know whose body they will forever blanket and hide. The truth ultimately sunk it. Zoro was dead. He was not coming back. His dream will never be accomplished. There will be no greatest swordsman at the side of the pirate king. No first mate to look after his captain. No Zoro to stand by Luffy.

After that, his heart gradually stopped beating and his lungs eventually gave up too. He did not struggle or try to resist. Guilt had snapped at his chest, violently ripping and clawing at the remnants of what remained there. It was all his fault. If he was stronger, none of this would have happened. Zoro wouldn't have to blindly sacrifice himself. Sanji wouldn't have to kill himself slowly with his cigarettes over the fact that Zoro had died to allow him to live. Chopper wouldn't have to cried those tears during the small funeral. (at night, they can sometimes hear a muffled sob) The others wouldn't have to struggle to live in a world without a familiar swordsman snoring away in the corner of the ship. Finally and quietly, Luffy came to the conclusion.

It would be better to be a dead man than a living man who killed his friend.


End file.
